Mapping out the Territory of the Dialogue Writer.

Most writing departments employ a larger number of dialogue writers on a part-time basis, leaving enough time for some consideration in the development of the meat of each episode.

A script that was written in a day or two will stand out like a sore thumb and rarely qualifies as anything more than a first draft.  Part-time writers will have other work commitments and schedule their time accordingly.

For the Dialogue Writer, there is a fine line between creating dramatic reality and tinkering with actual story content.

They will spend somewhere between 20 and 25 hours completing a script at 3rd draft level, leaving breaks in between sessions or days of writing to revisit the text with fresh eyes.

These writers are the lucky ones, as everyone else in the writing department, technically, only has one day to do what they need to on an episode.

For the Dialogue Writer, there is a fine line between creating dramatic reality and tinkering with actual story content. The job is to develop the ‘who says what/does what to whom prose’ from a breakdown into real interactions between characters with each a unique personality, voice and motivation.

It is the very potential for misunderstanding and miscommunication that keeps the audience unnerved, anxious to see how characters are interpreted by others.

It is not about changing content into something seemingly more credible or exciting.

For actual changes they’ll need clearance from ‘the top’ and other subsequent scripts – many already in the process of being written-  might need adjusting.

It sounds simple enough, but imagine how confusing it would get if ten writers all want to change content while simultaneously working on ten different episodes.

There is no list of golden rules to write by in this genre.  As in all endeavours, practice makes perfect.  Reading your scene drafts out loud to yourself or an objective ear often exposes glaring errors in rhythm or style.

TV dialogue is NOT natural.  It is quite far removed from real-world dialogue, stage dialogue and even film dialogue. There is less repetition, fewer ‘ehms’ and ‘ahs’, it is less disjointed and much more economical than everyday-speak.

The Television audience is impatient, mainly because they have the option to choose an alternative if they are not completely engrossed.  They see Television content as a right rather than a choice.  If you’ve made the effort to go to the Theatre, chances are you’ll sit through the uninspiring bits and wait for the captivating bits.

TV dialogue is NOT natural.  It is quite far removed from real-world dialogue, stage dialogue and even film dialogue.

At home, you’ll go and make coffee or flip to something else, even have a chat while the show is on if it doesn’t have you by the balls.

Therefore, in daily drama especially, the writer has to cater for a shorter, more predictable attention span.  Long speeches are a rarity; long scenes are a rarity; scene length is more consistent.

The genre is driven by dialogue. The demand for content combined with budgetary restraints inevitably leads to minimal variation in visual setting.

It is the characters and their verbal interaction that keeps the audience engaged over an extended period of viewing.

Creating dialogue that allows actors to inject more value into what’s NOT being said, the subtext, the ‘lines’ between the lines, is a skill that is equally necessary in all forms of screenwriting.

The genre is driven by dialogue. The demand for content combined with budgetary restraints inevitably leads to minimal variation in visual setting.

The breakdown will often point to what a character aims to get across.  The Dialogue Writer aims to use words that allude to that aim, with characters often not directly saying what they mean, even when being truthful.

It is the very potential for misunderstanding and miscommunication that keeps the audience unnerved, anxious to see how characters are interpreted by others.

There are many more areas in which writing for the daily genre will require a unique approach. This was a very wordy and drawn out debut-blog, more poop than pop, but I hope it stirs up some thought about the mechanics of the text-audience relationship in this deceptively challenging form of screenwriting.

Jan Ellis is a multi-media all-rounder with a glittering career in South African Film, Television and Theatre, who moved to Sydney in 2007 to train as a Video Editor and continues to write regular episodes for the popular South African daily drama, ‘Binnelanders’.

The writing/production environment

The practical implications of the production of daily drama seriously influence creativity in the process.  Firstly, consider the structure of a typical writing department and the process through which each script is produced and realised on screen.

It generally breaks down like this: Producers, Head Writer, Script Coordinator, Script Editor, Storyline Writers, Dialogue Writers and possibly Box Producer and Director/s meet anywhere between once and four times a year. During an intense brainstorming session they propose and deliberate characters, depending on actors’ contracts and availability.

Storylines are proposed for the long term (six months to a year), mid-term (three to six months) and short term (two weeks to a month) and the appropriate primary story arcs are developed.

Similarly, on any given day, people in various departments will be dealing with episodes’ scripts each at a completely different stage of their individual evolution:  one-line scene breakdowns; paragraph scene breakdowns, 3rd draft versions, edited versions, revised versions, approved versions, camera scripted versions.

A dialogue writer will be composing a draft for an episode that will be shot two months later and broadcast three months after that, while the script editor will be streamlining dialogue and checking continuity issues in an episode (with the preceding and following episodes very much in mind) that is six weeks from shoot.

On the same day a director will be planning camera shots and cutting points for an episode to be shot in three weeks or a month.  An editor will be finalising an episode that is due for broadcast in a couple of weeks.  And so it goes every day.

How many writers, did you say..?
The Head Writer – bless his/her soul – will deal with a number of episodes every single day,  churning out a daily instalment’s worth of new content for the Storyline Writers who convert it into scene summaries (breakdowns). Episodes coming in from the Script Editor will need to be read for approval,  then sending to the Producers for further approval.

The Head Writer also reads and approves previous breakdowns from Storyline Writers and deals with overall discrepancies in continuity, logic and character-consistency. Because of the domino-effect from already-written episodes, often solutions are needed to avoid collisions with others further down the production line, or in episodes yet to come.

The Dialogue Writer receives that blue print called the “breakdown” script.  Their aim is to flesh out the prose style skeleton into a scene with beats, rhythm, dialogue which is character specific and consistent, dramatic tension or comedy where appropriate and, most importantly, authenticity.

Breakdowns vary on different productions from fairly detailed summaries of the interaction in each scene to a mere few sentences describing the overall aim of the scene and what the characters motivations are.

In our case, each breakdown is about 4,500 words in length, representing a standard of 13 to 14 scenes per episode.  We have a team of about ten dialogue writers, each delivering an episode every two weeks on average.

The deadline for delivery is set five days after receipt of the breakdown.  While not writing, each writer reads all other breakdowns, as well as all final scripts as they are approved to ensure they are up to date across all levels of content.

The Script-Coordinator – usually a mere shell of a human being due to exhaustion and stress – manages the scheduling, filing and archiving protocols of this web of rotating script-versions and keeps everyone in the Department (as well as Production and Art Dept.) informed of every single detail that may be changed, cut, replaced, reworked, etc.

Suffice it to say, for every pair of eyes and ears that are needed to make sure that screen content flows well in any other genre, daily drama needs five pairs… and still errors inevitably slip through the net.

Jan Ellis is a multimedia all-rounder with a glittering career in South African film, television and theatre, who moved to Sydney in 2007 to train as a video-editor and who continues to write regular episodes for the popular South African daily drama, “Binnelanders”.

Psychology, timeframe, teamwork…

Jan Ellis reflects on some of the aspects of daily drama writing that set it apart from other screenwriting genres.

Differences of space/time
The second aspect of daily drama writing that sets it apart from other screenwriting genres is the configuration of space and time. Weekly drama often transcends the boundaries of real time.  An hour-long episode can represent a series of events that play out over weeks, even months or years and skip forward or backward in time with great effect.

Although flashbacks are used to an extent in daily drama, flashing forward is rare (unless the characters themselves have some clairvoyant skills).  So is leaving out substantial periods of time, except when weekends are deliberately used to suggest breaks in continuity from a Friday episode to a Monday episode.

Daily drama scripts are largely bound by a day-by-episode format in order to parallel the viewer’s calendar.  One of the consequences is that issues are often dwelled on much longer in terms of screen time.

Whereas a conflict and resolution (that say, plays out over a week) between two characters can quite easily be represented in a few key scenes in a single episode of a weekly drama, writers of daily drama are forced to use more scenes (meaning more interaction and more dialogue) to tell the same story, as they cannot afford to put too much distance between characters in space and time.  If a certain issue is at hand between two or more characters, it needs daily attention in the show, whether those characters interact daily or not.

Because of the sheer volume of screen time that needs to be filled by daily drama and the limited time available to fill it, here are a few general time-space issues that probably create greater challenges to the writers of this genre than others:

1. A => B => A
Unlike most American dailies, those from Australia, the UK and South Africa avoid the classic ‘Cut from scene A to scene B and cut back to Scene A’ structure. By this I mean: cutting  from Ridge and Eric arguing to Brook and Stephanie reconciling and then back to Ridge and Eric still arguing, a la The Bold and the Beautiful. New scenes generally mean new interactions, rather than continuing where the characters left off in previous scenes.

The challenge is to overcome the obvious choice of starting scenes with one or more characters present in a setting, and another character arriving to prompt interaction.  The aim is to start scenes mid-interaction, presupposing dialogue that the audience is not privy to.

2. Left to ponder.

Another pitfall is to continuously end scenes with a character leaving another behind to ponder whatever they discussed.  It can be used to great effect, but should be done sparingly.  The idea is to get in after the start and get out before the end of an interaction (again implying off-screen dialogue), which keeps scenes less bookended and ensures better narrative flow.

A tactic to keep things dynamic is for a character to exit from a situation as another enters either to interact with the character left behind or approaching another character that happens to be in the same communal space as the first.  The two-hander is the most frequently used character combination used in daily drama scenes.  Under time constraints, it speeds up the writing process and often provides a more classic bipolar interaction for the viewer to absorb.

3. The never-ending story.

Daily drama is, by definition, perpetual, resembling a stream of consciousness with highs, lows and temporary resolutions.  The aim is to keep going, not for a season, not for a year, not for a few, but for a lifetime.

In most weekly genres, a particular issue or event is dealt with in each episode.  In CSI, this week’s murderer is caught (or gets away with it, rarely) and next week, a new case arrives.

Daily drama, on the other hand, consistently juggles three main storylines at various stages of their individual arcs at any given point in time, with cliffhangers being required every 24 hours.  A story will almost never begin and end in the same episode.  One storyline (which could play out in a month) might be in the infancy of its cycle, another (which has developed over three months) may be reaching a crisis point, whereas a much longer story-arc might be in that phase of the cycle where its effect on current events is marginal.

A healthy mix of two- and multi-character scenes (with more complex interactions), added to the odd scene where all or most of the characters in the story are present, e.g. the Christmas Party or Dance Competition, brings balance in terms of the audience’s view on the individuals and the communal world which they all inhabit.

Jan Ellis is a multi-media all-rounder with a glittering career in South African Film, Television and Theatre, who moved to Sydney in 2007 to train as a Video Editor and continues to write regular episodes for the popular South African daily drama, ‘Binnelanders’.

Psychology, timeframe, teamwork…

Jan Ellis, writer for South-African daily television drama, “Binnelanders”, reflects on the aspects of daily drama writing that set it apart from other screenwriting genres.

This is my first blog post.  Pop.

My briefing was to highlight some of the unique methods in writing text for daily drama as opposed to other genres of screenwriting.  The differences between daily drama writing and film writing are more obvious, purely because films are mostly discreet units of narrative with a set-up, conflict and resolution (open-ended or not).

When it comes to writing for daily drama as opposed to weekly drama, the differences are more subtle.  But they still have a profound effect on the way the respective scripts are conceived and produced.

1.The Role of Daily Television in our Psychology

In all genres of screenwriting, some basic methodology is valid across the board.   Certain aspects, however, become accentuated when dealing with daily drama texts and its strictly formulaic structure.

As a starting point, it’s probably a good idea to consider the unique psychological relationship a daily drama audience has with the story and the characters.

The very routine and timeslot of the daily 30 minute ‘fix’ of voyeurism conveniently fits into the Monday to Friday pattern of either a housewife/husband’s mid-morning coffee break or the supper hour in which the household temporarily settles down and ‘mingles’ with their on-screen ‘family’.

The relationship with on-screen characters seems immediate; the soap reflects the viewer’s own routine more closely than film; the characters become partners in the daily grind.

It is not surprising that many hardcore fans cannot seem to dissociate the characters from the actors portraying them.  When it comes to daily drama, viewers tend to refer to the character’s names without knowing the name of the actor playing the role — even after meeting the performer in person.

This is probably why producers of other screen genres are often reluctant to cast actors who have been playing a daily character for a substantial period of time.

For producers of daily drama in all departments – writers, directors, actors, editors and schedulers – the relentless pressure of delivering 22-24 minutes worth of dramatic content every day is an immense challenge – one very easily underestimated by those who produce drama formats regarded as ‘superior’.

In some ways, yes, the daily audience might be more forgiving when storylines or characters lack drastic development or change, as this often more accurately coincides with the seeming consistency of their own routines.

On the other hand, they may be even harder to please as they simultaneously demand to experience a world that superficially reflects their own, but which is infused with extraordinary events, scandal, high tension and extreme emotions.

After all, if a character has not been seriously ill, kidnapped, threatened at gun point or been shot, stabbed, been cheated on or cheated on someone, been on the precipice of financial disaster, nearly killed in a car accident or injured in some other way, been robbed, betrayed, psychologically scarred or brainwashed by a religious cult in the last six months, what are they doing on your TV screen?

-Jan Ellis

Jan Ellis is a multi-media all-rounder with a glittering career in South African Film, Television and Theatre, who moved to Sydney in 2007 to train as a Video Editor and continues to write regular episodes for the popular South African daily drama, ‘Binnelanders’.

Writer/Producer Meg Shields reflects on the development of her script which recently won the Bill Warnock Feature Writers Awards in WA.  Will this mean a future in which she can buy her kids birthday cakes without the guilt of not baking them?

With Australian films struggling at the box office and many great writers out of work, I have moments when I seriously contemplate whether my quest to tell stories in the visual medium is a pipe dream. The maternal guilt of juggling kids with making films, and spending time with my words rather than baking cakes and volunteering for the school canteen, can make the challenge feel overwhelming at times.

While all this was consuming me, a small ray of hope burst through and told me I’m doing what I have to do – tell stories.  So maybe someday I’ll buy the cakes instead.  The ray of light came in the form of a major WA writing award.

This particular script’s journey started in 2007 with a pitch to a fellow writing friend who always generously listens.  This time, she was silent and wide-eyed. She urged me to get it on the page.

COOKING THE STORY

I wandered around with the story in my head for some time, dissecting the characters who had “appeared”, making notes about them as they evolved and pitching to a select few. The characters began to “speak”, and I felt it was nearly time to put pen to paper … but not just yet.

I had worked with Karel of The Story Department previously on some short film scripts and when we met up at SPAA I pitched some projects to him, my family drama feature being one of them. He immediately responded to it and encouraged me to write up a synopsis which he later reviewed.

Meanwhile, I was unexpectedly thrust into shooting a documentary in the Pilbara that took me to a small outback ghost town where I spent some of the most memorable years of my youth.  My feature story happened to be set here, and the return to the desert was a catalyst for getting it onto the page.  My characters came alive out there!

After returning home physically and mentally exhausted, I knew the story was “cooked” and my characters were banging on the oven door to be let out. I sat down and purged the first draft of my script in 5 days.

FIRST DRAFT FURY

When the story is ready to transgress to the page, I have to get it out quickly or I may lose it (superstition and paranoia are key to my work!). Karel reviewed the first 30 pages, and I subsequently tweaked the draft. It was vital to have his professional support to give me direction and opinion.

There are so many questions you ask yourself, and a script consultant is the sounding board that helps you answer these appropriately. It also provides you with confidence to keep going forward.

I tweaked the completed draft on my own. To say I felt locked in a cupboard is an understatement:  alone, paranoid and seriously doubting whether it was all worth while. But my money box was empty, with no hope of ever being filled again.

I sent the script to an experienced working writer, a mentor who read for me. He graciously encouraged me that it was worthwhile and to keep going. I found that getting my script read by professionals was no easy task as everyone is so busy with their own projects, and I hate asking for favours.  Writing the first draft seemed easy in comparison.  How to move on from the page?

With the new Screen Australia guidelines requiring that less experienced writers team up with more experienced producers for script development, it is becoming the norm for writers to approach producers in the early development of their project.

Normally I wouldn’t approach a producer with an early draft, but now we have no choice. Desperate for funding, I set out to test the waters with a query letter and short synopsis, approaching those producers who I deemed would suit the type of project I had. Some politely advised their slates were full, others I never received any response from. Small bites on the line seemed hopeful then quickly dispersed.

Instead of writing I was now marketing and I realised that I had to improve my shitty pitching style immediately.

Meanwhile, I entered the script into the Bill Warnock Feature Writers Award in WA.  It was shortlisted and I was announced as the winner at the WA screen awards. As a result I was gratefully armed with a precious money box, full of development dollars thanks to Screenwest.

WHERE DID THE MONEY GO?

To make the dollars go as far as I could, I decided I wanted my own “Indivision” workshop.

I approached Karel who tailored a program specifically for my project and we immersed ourselves in a 3-day script intensive.

Those three days enabled me to immerse myself completely in my story, uninterrupted by the outside world. Rather than the usual to and fro of readers’ assessments and notes, the process was now much more organic, with brainstorming allowing ideas to be generated with vigor and fluidity. Working in this hothouse environment meant that the story quickly evolved. Problems were readily identified and solutions promptly found.

My story came alive in that room and for the first time I felt that it was possible for it to actually be produced. Karel’s expertise gave me hope, and that’s an essential thing for a writer who lives in another realm most of the time.

With a deadline approaching, I’m now embarking on my next draft and will then market the script to gain the interests of an appropriate producer. With the current climate so volatile and feature film in OZ traditionally not doing that well at the box office, my family drama feature film and I have a big hill to climb.

I’m banking that the industry will find its way to sustain great Australian films … otherwise we will lose who we are, and finding the words will be the least of our worries.

-Meg Shields

Meg Shields is an AWGIE nominee and recipient of the BIll Warnock Award with several feature and documentary projects in development.

“Animation is not a genre but an art form” says writer-director Brad Bird on the commentary track. This is one of the most enjoyable superhero action adventures I know. It is also the #1 movie I will never forgive myself for not seeing in the theaters at the time of release. It’s in my Top 10 of all-time favourites and a strong reference movie in almost all my story classes.

ACT ONE

Prologue: The Glory Days & Wound (11mins)

00.00 TV interview: The Incredibles about their secret identities.
02.00 Mr Incredible called to the rescue, but saves the cat first.
04.30 Meets with Elastigirl on rooftop – “prior engagement”.
05.30 Bob saves man from suicide attempt, he’s not happy.
06.30 Bob stops Bomb Voyage, Incrediboy complicates matters.
09.00 Bob marries Elastigirl: she needs more than Mr. Incredible.
10.00 Superheroes are sued by suicidal: relocation program.

Sequence A: The Ordinary Life (9mins)

11.00 15 years later: Insurance clerk, warned to stop writing cheques.
13.00 After Helen sees headmaster, Dash told to be like everyone else.
15.30 Violet is shy. Always trying to be invisible. Boy looked at her!
16.00 Bob comes home, frustrated. Neighbour’s boy sees him.
16.30 Dinner: they all use their powers, Bob is not in control.
18.30 Robert reads paper: Advocate of superhero rights is missing.
19.00 Frozone calls: Wednesday, it’s bowling night.
19.30 Violet: What does anybody know about normal?

Sequence B: Secrets, Lies & Inciting Incident (14mins)

20.00 Frozone: What if we did what our wives think we’re doing?
20.30 Mirage: “He’s not alone”.
21.00 Fire rescue, escape into into jewellery shop, police catches them.
23.00 Helen: Uprooting our family to be a superhero is not good.
26.00 Boss cross: customers are experts, Bob has enough, loses it.
28.30 Boss in hospital. Relocator offers to help Bob & family.
30.00 Invitation from Mirage: Do great things. 24 hours to respond.
32.30 Lying to Helen: sent to conference. Accepting Mirage’s call.

ACT TWO A

Sequence C: Living the Dream again (12mins)

34.00 Mirage gives Bob instructions, he arrives on the island.
36.00 Bob fights the robot, terminates it. Mission accomplished.
38.30 Invited to dinner with Mirage; everything is delicious.
39.30 Montage sequence: Bob is loving the great new life.
41.00 Bob asks stylist E to repair suit; she will design new supersuit.
44.00 New assignment: Bob keeps lying to Helen.

Sequence D: Things are not what they seem (7mins)

45.00 Flying to island, nice to be back, Mirage. Briefing for 2pm.
47.00 Helen finds patched suit, calls Edna. You come in 1 hour I insist.
48.00 Bob’s meeting: I’m Syndrome, your biggest fan. You work alone.
50.30 Syndrome tries to kill Bob, he jumps in water.
51.00 Bob finds dead super Gazerbeam. “K R O N O S”
51.30 Tracers trying to find Bob: terminated.

ACT TWO B

Sequence E: Approach to Syndrome’s HQ (9mins)

52.00 E shows Helen her work: we are retired! Do you know where he is?
55.00 Removing the guards, going in.
57.30 Bob learns that the Supers are dead.
58.00 Helen finds out Bob left company, he’s  been lying.
59.30 Locator betrays Bob. Bob caught in Blobs.
60.00 E to Helen: go, fight, win!

Sequence F: Bob in the Cave / Family to the rescue (9mins)

61.00 Helen gets ready, Dash sees outfits. Calling Snug.
62.30 Helen & kids flies gov. jet, missile attack on approach.
63.30 Bob chained – Syndrome shows up.
67.30 Helen saves the kids. Get a grip!
68.30 Bob threatens to kill Mirage, doesn’t do it. S: You’re weak!
70.00 Helen to kids: use your powers. I’ll be back by morning.

Sequence G: FINDING BOB (9mins)

72.30 Mirage: Next time you gamble, bet your own life.
73.30 Helen goes into HQ, using her Elastigirl powers.
76.00 Dash: I’m gonna look around.
77.30 Rocket launch: Dash & Vi run.
78.30 Dash & Vi discovered. They have to run.
79.30 Mirage tells Bob his family is alive. Helen finds the two.

Sequence H: REUNION IN THE CAVE (7mins)

82.00 Dash runs & fights & runs.
83.30 Bob & Helen // Violet disappears, Dash to the rescue.
85.00 Family reunion.
85.30 S appears. Captures them, shows what the robots do. “I’m real”
87.30 Bob apologises, Violet releases them, escaping.

ACT THREE

Sequence I: Threshold Sequence (5mins)

88.00 To the rocket, Mirage helps
89.00 Frozone getting ready
90.00 Syndrome “saves baby” but can’t stop robot.
91.00 Incredibles arrive with bus.

Sequence J: INCREDIBLES vs. SYNDROME (8mins)

93.00 Robot attacks them.
94.00 Frozone helps. Bob has the remote control.
97.00 Taking out the robot.
97.30 Syndrome still around
98.00 New hope for the supers.
99.00 Kari (babysit) calls: thanks for replacement – S
99.30 Jack-Jack’s special powers. Bob throws Helen.
100.30 S in turbine / Violet protects them.

Sequence J: THE INCREDIBLE(S) TEAM (3mins)
101.30 3 months later: Tony & Violet / Dash comes close second
102.30 The Underminer: they all get ready to work together.

THE HERO’S JOURNEY

In a prologue full of beautifully dramatised exposition, we meet Bob, Helen, Frozone and Incrediboy. We learn about the role of the Supers and their fall – or Bob’s ‘wound’.

ACT ONE

The Ordinary World for Bob doesn’t start until after the prologue, “15 Years Later”. It is literally an ‘ordinary’ world and he has a strong longing to swap this life for something more exciting. This stage extends for two sequences, in which we see Bob’s boring day job as well as his exciting secret night escapades.

But he is a flawed hero. He lies to his wife and hates his job. He is blamed of not doing his fatherly duties. This Hero is ready for change.

The Call to Adventure comes with the message from Mirage, the Herald and Shapeshifter who seduces Bob into a adventure that promises exactly what Bob has been lacking in his life.

After hardly any Refusal, Bob crosses the Threshold and accepts Mirages offer. Again he lies to Helen, saying he’s off to a conference.

ACT TWO

The typical pitfalls of a second act are overcome by using a solid sequential structure and by interweaving Bob’s journey with that of his family. In the middle of the act sits a powerful Mid Point Reversal, which accelerates the Hero’s Inner Journey and gives his Outer Journey a new direction.

The first half of Act Two consists of a number of Tests for Bob, leading to his first assignment, which Bob completes effortlessly. So in a way this assignment can be seen as just another ‘test’ in the journey. Bob is loving his new life. But he’s still living the lie, so a reversal is looming. Going back to the island, he is to meet with with his employer but instead he is attacked by a robot and for the first time, he finds himself face to face with Syndrome, his Shadow.  It turns out he has created this shadow by rejecting (his need for a) Buddy. In order to resurrect as the transformed Hero, Bob will not only need to defeat Syndrome, but take on the very character quality Buddy/Syndrome represented: team spirit.

Although The Incredibles never FEELS formulaic, it ticks all the boxes of the Journey, including the almost cliche’d beat of the Mid Point: the Leap of Faith. To escape his enemy, Bob dives off the cliff (Butch & Sundance style) into the water below. Seconds later, the reversal is complete when he learns the full truth about Syndrome and the fate of the Supers by discovering the meaning of “KRONOS”.

The next sequence is a typical Approach to the Inmost Cave, i.e. trying to get into Syndrome’s HQ. There, Mr Incredible will face his lowest point when he is chained in the cave, first alone, then together with his family.

The traditionally melodramatic Ordeal scene is peppered with mild sarcasm,  when Dash cuts into Bob’s redemption speech and Helen says: “Shhht! Don’t interrupt…”

Brad Bird shows again how you can use a template like the Hero’s Journey and use it in an original way: the Reward is shown BEFORE the Ordeal, as we see on a big screen what Syndrome is up to. So the Incredibles know where to go and what to do once they’re out of their predicament. It makes the transition more fluid than in many movies, where the Reward magically – and quite randomly – appears immediately after the redemption.

ACT THREE

The Road Back ‘Threshold Sequence’ is a fully fledged chase sequence back to the Ordinary World, including running, flying and driving.Technically you can argue that this sequence belongs nor in Act Two (Special World) nor Act Three (Ordinary World) but I place it in Act Three because it happens after the Hero is ready to confront the Shadow. The race to the mainland is in effect the first action after the 2nd Act Turning Poing (PP2 or Ordeal/Reward).

Back on the main land, the family engages with Syndrome. The subplot of Jack-Jack and the babysit leads into the final showdown and Syndrome’s demise pays off the setup about the caped Super-costumes. Delightful.

In a brief Elixir-sequence, Dash finally  gets his chance to shine and Violet shows her regained self-esteem. In the final scene of the movie we see how the Incredibles will continue their lives.

Mark Familton received a $12,000 grant to develop his gritty sci-fi thriller feature – something any screenwriter would beg for.  But what was the grant all about, what was the process and what did he get out of it at the end? (Unfortunately the NSP grant in question is no longer part of Screen Australia’s development assistance).

Getting offered the development grant was a real shock for me, as sci-fi had not been a genre awarded before. At last! I thought at the time, Screen Australia (SA) is looking to develop high-concept projects with a view to worldwide distribution. With this in mind I asked for, and was granted, a renowned script consultant based in L.A.: Blake Snyder.  Quite reasonably, Blake’s manager asked for US$6,000, but with the all-too-rapid crash of the Aussie dollar, the cost came to about $8,500. SA advised me spend the money.  And Blake was worth every cent.

While signing contracts with SA and Blake’s manager, I got on spending more money.  I had developed a friendship with Kathie Fong Yoneda after completing her online Pitching course. Yoneda is a twenty year veteran of the Hollywood studio system who now devotes her life to teaching. She became a mentor to me and advised me to go to LA for the Great American Pitchfest. I went, and total immersion in the daunting world of pitching was quite an educational experience.

MEETING WITH THE PLAYERS

The Grant proved a significant accolade, taken seriously by the execs I met, because it means other industry professionals have already vetted the project and spotted potential. The grant bestowed instant credibility on project and writer. And the other thing I learned was not to fear pitching. It’s a necessary skill to acquire. If you can, embrace it – execs are human-beings with great senses of humour who aren’t interested in melodramatic pitches, just ones that sound relaxed, coherent and professional. Oh yeah, and don’t forget that snappy logline.

So, did anyone buy?  No.  Why?  The project was still first draft and pretty rough around the edges. In hindsight, it would have been better to go to the ‘fest this year with a completed second draft. Never mind – it was a brilliant experience.  Kathie introduced me to all the script consultants lecturing there, some of who I keep in contact, and we had dinner with Prof Linda Seger, which was a treat.

THE PAGE ONE REWRITE

Buoyed up by the trip and busting to get going with the rewrite, the wind got knocked out my sails, bigtime! Blake didn’t think the script, as it stood, could “work”— i.e. it wasn’t commercial enough to attract big distributors. Oh crap! I was gutted. Blake suggested going back to basics and completely reworking the script from page one.

This presented a problem: I’d signed the contract with SA to deliver the second draft in three months time. As this wasn’t just an ‘edit job’, I foresaw that a complete rewrite could take several months (my day job as a Specialist Anaesthetist is a tough mistress). Thankfully, SA was very understanding and agreed to a variation in the contract.  Phew!

Blake and I got down to it and started batting “beat sheets” (i.e. step outlines) back and forwards – lots and lots of them over three months. We worked up to forty beats and used the old cards-on-a-board method to really nail the structure, theme development and storylines. The characters were amped up, as was the conflict, and the plot device was completely changed.

DELIVER OR DIE!

Nine months into the contract (and after an impatient call from SA), the new baby – retitled DARK MATTER – was delivered.  Blake had given a brave and honest opinion, which paid off, bigtime – the ‘second’ draft is so much better. Blake thinks it’s truly worthy of production and wider distribution.

About this “impatient call”: I was given a ‘project manager’ at SA who I naively thought would ‘shepherd’ the project and take a close interest. But I was wrong.  I was cut short during my explanation of the delay on delivery, and was threatened with legal action to reclaim the grant money if I didn’t deliver. “No worries”, was the only reply that came to my mind!

Even more frustratingly, when I asked SA what the process would be after delivery, I was told there wasn’t one. No-one would read the second draft and no feedback would be given unless I requested it. I couldn’t believe my ears. Sure as I’ll go to hell, I want feedback!  “Would you help find me a producer?” I asked.
“No, we’re just a funding agency”, came the reply. I was gobsmacked.

NOW WHAT?

The SA contract includes a report from the writer which gives them the chance to identify areas for further development in the grant project, so at the end of my report I asked for better feedback and expressed my disappointment about the lack of prospects following delivery. I also stated that I thought this failure represented a very poor return on a taxpayer-funded investment and might lead to ongoing loss of projects overseas.

What now? I’ve still got to find a producer. That’s a tough ask for an unknown, new screenwriter with no history or contacts in the industry, and even more difficult for a writer with a high-concept project which contravenes the “low budget only” catch-cry pervading the industry.

As we all know, new screenwriters who aren’t referred by someone in the biz are often dismissed by production companies with the phrase, ‘no unsolicited submissions’. Networking is the key, and SA should be in a superior position to help further the networking process.

SA should also have a process in place to carry on the momentum that the New Screenwriters Development Grant initiates.  Bestowing taxpayer money on new screenwriters gives them fantastic opportunities, but it seems somewhat wasted when it could be so much more meaningful. SA has the potential to revamp the Australian film industry.  It’s a shame no-one seems innovative enough to do so. Mentoring writers is more than just chucking money at them.

THE BOTTOM LINE

If you’re offered the Grant, of course, humbly accept it. It’s an opportunity to improve your project so you can pitch it confidently to producers. It’s also an opportunity to learn from an established consultant.  Be prepared to conduct a radical overhaul of your project if the consultant advises it, and only stick to your guns if your gut tells you otherwise. Above all, think professionally and act professionally, from go to “whoa”.  And for me, the “whoa” was exactly that – a sudden skid to a halt when the project I slaved over was delivered. I’ll be working hard to get it moving again, that’s for sure.

I’m honoured to have received the grant, appreciative of the flexibility of SA, and lucky to have learned from Blake Snyder. Thanks to the Grant, I’m a different writer now than this time last year and far better able to attack my next project: an Australian ‘Bourne’-type thriller, set against the backdrop of international terrorism.

If anyone wants further info, please email me on Familton@westnet.com.au.  And if you know any producers who want sci-fi, please point them in my direction!

Dr Mark Familton is a full-time Specialist Anaesthetist, occasional international lecturer in Anaesthesia, ex-military paratrooper, current part-time fitness instructor and describes himself as a tenacious bastard who likes socialising, fancy food and plenty of Australian wine – preferably all together.

I recently moved to Perth to study directing with the West Australian Screen Academy, which is under the umbrella of West Australian Academy of Performing Arts (WAAPA).  As part of the course, students direct a multi-camera piece, a lifestyle magazine piece (I don’t really know what that is either), a documentary and a short film.  I’ve chosen to focus on directing for this year, but I’m essentially a writer/director, so I want to talk about the process of transferring a piece of writing to the screen.

There is a maxim that goes, “A film gets written three times: first by the writer, second by the director and third by the editor”.   This is, essentially, true, and by no means is it a bad thing – although as a writer it can be difficult to see your vision become something else.

The reality is that each of these rewrites is necessary in order to distill the story in a way that makes it accessible for your audience.  When you are writing, you are drawing on your own experience and your own frames of reference and your own archetypes.   As the medium changes from the ephemeral space of your own mind, so the created film, by necessity, becomes an extended exercise in compromise. It is similar to the transferring of energy from one form to another: some of the energy always ends up getting dispersed in an unintended form, such as heat or light.  Baz Luhrmann says that he gets 60% of what was in his head on film, at best. That’s a pretty good average.

I often find, as a writer, that your brain gets snagged on particular images which become vitally important to you. They hold some personal significance to you, and in our own head they are full of subtext.  It can be devastating when they aren’t translated to the completed film, and rants about others not understanding your vision are sure to follow. So, the challenge is to figure out how to ensure which images are truly important to you in your piece and to ensure that they remain in the film.

For example, I recently had a stand up argument with a writer who was upset that, as a director, I wanted to change the colour of a car to fit in more the production design of the film. When I asked him why, he insisted that the car had to be black because it symbolized the Angel of Death. There was no other reference to this concept in the rest of the script, no implicit spirituality, no visual or verbal references to Angels or to the random spectre of death, so the symbolism that was so important to him made no sense to anyone else.

This was a wonderful lesson for me, as both a writer and director, because it served as a reminder about the fact that symbolism is not universal. Even the concept of death, which we may think is a major cultural archetype, will in fact mean something different to different people depending on their experience, background and spiritual persuasion. You can not rely on your own points of reference translating into your film.

Joseph Campbell often talks about the role of persona in Western as opposed to Eastern Philosophy. In Western Philosophy, according to Campbell, a persona is a mask put on by an individual in a specific role; the mask can be replaced or removed altogether, but the individual underneath the mask remains the same. In Eastern Philosophy, the individual is regarded as ephemeral, so the mask of persona is treated as real.

This idea reveals how different cultures have different cinematic gazes and, especially if we are to regard our audience as a truly international one, (which we should be doing. Screen Australia?) it serves as a reminder that we cannot automatically assume that our audience will share a common symbolic language with us.

So, how do you avoid this trap? It is my belief that as soon as you start introducing elements of your own symbolism into your script, it simply won’t translate. Your characters are seeing the narrative through their own eyes and their own framework of symbolism and archetypes, and ideally the audience also experiences the narrative through the eyes of the characters.

Weighting the symbolism so that it exists through the eyes of the character allows it to be integrated as part of the narrative. This means that the narrative can, in return, add additional weight to the symbolic elements and make them an intrinsic part of the completed film.

In summary: The narrative needs to be told through your characters eyes, not yours.

-Ngaire O’Leary

Ngaire O’Leary is a full time student and occasional writer/director.

In 2006, I hooked up with producer Michael Robertson when he was in pre-production on the croc-thriller movie Black Water. After more than a decade of writing for TV and short films in the UK, but never managing to get a feature going, I was about to have the best meeting of my life.

Michael told me three things. They were making Black Water for around $1.3m. If it was successful (it ended up selling to 71 territories), then the financiers would want to do another film. “And this,” said Michael, “is where you come in…” If I came up with a genre film that could be shot for $2m or less, then he would make it.

Two and a half years later, Michael was true to his word. On May 11th 2009, the cameras rolled on the production of my supernatural thriller Road Train.

Michael’s list of must-haves for a successful low budget genre movie was simple – high concept, small cast, limited locations, few or no special effects, and (ideally) no night shooting. The first four I had no problem with, but as I knew I wanted to do a supernatural thriller, the idea of no night shooting had me scratching my head. Typically, in these kinds of films, the nighttime is where all the scary stuff happens.

And so, in the true spirit of low budget filmmaking, I made a stylistic plus out of a necessity, and made all the scary stuff happen in the blazing desert sunshine. Indeed, the entire story takes place within a twelve-hour period, and it makes for a very compressed, dramatic storyline.

After I came up with a basic outline for Road Train, Michael made up postcards featuring a mock up poster, a strap line (‘Never, Ever Leave Your Vehicle’), and a 200-word blurb for what we were planning. (Check out the Prodigy Movies website to see what I’m talking about.)

Michael took the postcards to Cannes in 2007 and flashed them around … and the financiers said yes! Michael then put his hand in his own pocket (bless him) and paid me to write the script.

Researching the script, as usual, came down to three areas – experts, characters, and what I like to call ‘walking the ground’. ‘Walking the ground’ involved a trip to Dubbo NSW, to hang out with truckies, and included a six-hour trip in a road train. My experts – people whose brains I could pick about what they do – included a truckie (obviously), a serious camper for the camping-in-the-outback stuff, and a doctor for the effects of dehydration on the characters. Character research involved pulling together aspects of different people I knew, in order to create written character backstories.

I did about three drafts for Michael over eight months, before director Dean Francis came on board. Dean was the catalyst for turning an already good script into a great one, by being very clear about what needed to be left alone, and what still needed more work. Michael approached Screen Australia with the new version of the script and the private money attached, and Screen Australia agreed to put up the other half of the budget.

While the original private money eventually fell victim to the credit crunch, other private money and the South Australia Film Commission came in to make up the shortfall.

So, two years from (literally) an idea on the back of a postcard to the cameras turning – a mere blink of an eye in the world of film financing. Hopefully, at the end of it all we’ll have a small-but-perfectly formed Aussie genre film that, like Black Water, punches well above its weight – one that finds an audience both here and internationally.

I’m looking forward to visiting the production later this month, and will keep you posted on developments.

-Clive Hopkins

Prior to ROAD TRAIN, Clive Hopkins’ main claim to fame was as the writer of Oscar nominated short film, HOLIDAY ROMANCE.

In our series about screenwriting software, the people behind some of the leading titles contribute to this blog.

Our guest this week is Dan Bronzite, CEO of Movie Outline.

Is there a right or wrong way to write a screenplay?
Is one piece of software better than another?

The answers to both of these common questions are purely subjective. Of course, I think Movie Outline is far superior to Final Draft and Movie Magic – not just because I designed it but because, from my perspective as a working screenwriter, it ticks more of the boxes for story development than our competition. But that doesn’t mean what works for me will work for somebody else.

Every writer has their own method. Some may grab a pen and pad (as I used to do when I started out), others may type FADE IN on their favorite word processor and bash out a full script without any kind of planning. And hey, if it works, then great! Who am I, or indeed, who is anybody to tell you how to work or what tools to use?

There is no right or wrong way that applies to everyone. There are only common methodologies and structural roadmaps that tend to come up again and again when you analyze successful movie narratives. I bet if you asked the writers of two box office smashes that both followed the “Hero’s Journey” paradigm about their writing process, you would find that they constructed the script in very different ways.

So how do I work? My first task, once I’ve got that killer idea, is to create a step outline. This is something I never used to do. My old method was writing a script on a pad, then copying it all into an archaic word processor and formatting it with macros. Jesus, it took a long time. But funnily enough, the process had its advantages. The time it took me to type it all out and format it correctly helped me revise the prose and dialogue (sometimes the structure, but not often) and mould it into a better rough first draft. That said, I wouldn’t go back and do it that way again, I now just make sure I give myself plenty of time to think over anything I’ve written.

A step outline ultimately saves me a hell of a lot of time in the rewriting stage but more importantly, it helps me focus theme, create three-dimensional characters and tighten story structure from the get go.

Originally I would only write a treatment as a selling document (something to give to producers to get interest and financing for a script) and I would only outline when developing rewrites with producers and directors. I initially didn’t like the process because I felt it hindered my creative flow. I was eager to write. I just wanted to flush everything out of my brain onto paper, not plan scenes. But in time I have learned to embrace the process and now actually find it helps my creative flow.

The trick with a step outline is simple: keep it short and succinct. Just write each step in one or two paragraphs then roll on to the next one. If you have ideas for dialogue or character development then note them down but don’t get too caught up in the details. Once you’ve got your basic step to step plan then you can go back in and re-jig the order, add some scenes, delete some scenes, work on the characterization and ensure your theme is strong, clear and intrinsically gluing everything else together.

The process doesn’t normally take me too long and by the end of it I have a ten to twelve page document in front of me that is ready for transformation into a proper screenplay. For this I used to use Final Draft, which was good for formatting but didn’t do anything else that I needed. It had production features but this was no use without a production deal. What I needed was an outliner, but unfortunately there wasn’t anything around specific to screenwriting.

That’s when Movie Outline was conceived.

Since 2004 the product has developed from a simple step-outliner into a professional screenplay development package, and it is continually evolving. I am extremely excited about its future and love the fact that a community is now growing around it all over the world. The best part is the constructive feedback we receive. Movie Outline users really seem to have taken to the concept of the software and are effectively shaping its future development.

For me the software fulfills my screenwriting needs and suits my own writing methodology which, as mentioned, has also evolved over time. It allows me to write how I want without forcing rigid rules upon me. It has many features, but unlike some other structuring and story development tools, they do not take a Masters in Science to understand and are customizable.

A good example is Movie Outline’s Character Profile Wizard, a feature that allows you to asks a series of probing “interview style” questions to your characters and define their relationships with other characters in the story. You can also answer four key questions for each character for each step of your outline. But that’s the thing… you don’t have to. And if you do want to flesh out your characters with these tools then you can do it at any stage: before your outline, while writing your first draft script or even during re-writes.

Movie Outline also comes with twelve step by step breakdowns and analyses of successful Hollywood movies that allow you to simultaneously view the progression of your own story’s narrative with that of films in the same genre. This helps you identify pacing problems (especially through the FeelFactor™ graphs) and in conjunction with the software’s structuring and dialogue isolation tools can certainly help you craft a more rounded and professional screenplay.

That said, let me be clear: there is no quick fix for a broken script. It’s still down to you to work out why your script or scene or piece of dialogue doesn’t work. Sometimes you can follow all the so-called “rules” and still not get it right and in these instances the only solution is usually a combination of time, unbiased feedback and your own objective analysis… which is always the hardest part.

-Dan Bronzite
Dan Bronzite is a produced screenwriter and creator of the popular scriptwriting software Movie Outline 3. His company has also just launched Hollywood Script Express, an online script submission service for out-of-state and overseas writers.